


A Courtly Love

by jiokra



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Dancing, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Pining, Regency, Secret Relationship, Smut, butler!Bellamy, heiress!clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-25 17:39:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10769181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jiokra/pseuds/jiokra
Summary: It is the most anticipated occasion among thetonin London that Season: Duke Roan proposing marriage to Clarke Griffin. Yet for Bellamy, private butler to the rich heiress, it marks the dreaded end to their secret affair.





	A Courtly Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [useyourtelescope (thedreamygirl)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedreamygirl/gifts).



Bellamy retrieved the pocket watch from the breast pocket of his midnight blue waist coat, the silver chain a match to the buttons. He squinted by lack of a monocle, and spied the time as a quarter past the hour. Frowning, he peered at the pale screens piled high with rejected muslin dresses, silk shawls, bonnets littering the floor. “Clarke,” he said stoically, yet his stomach pinched with butterflies. “You’re late for your own ball.”

A dress was tossed in the air, falling over the screen. Clarke called out, “Roan ensured me he’ll continue negotiating the dowry until the next hour. My parents are otherwise occupied and everyone still ‘enchanted’ by a Duke gracing them with his presence.”

Bereaved, he examined her private bedroom as if a secret solution might reveal itself in the brushes, oils, and make up on the vanity, the embroidered cushions plump and lonely on the four poster bed.

She poked around the edge of the screen, the flush of her breasts and collarbones bare, as she wore nothing but a creamy chemise and the corset he’d tied himself into a crisscross and tightened until it became clear Clarke merely meant to keep his hands on her. The corset was a game they always played before a ball, yet tonight Roan was to propose marriage and Clarke destined to accept. Bellamy believed he was justified to cut the game short.

“I’m debating about whether to wear a petticoat,” said Clarke, eyebrow twitching as mirth danced in her eyes. “What do you think?”

Bellamy shifted, lifting his chin and quirking his lip. “Whatever you want, Duchess.”

Clarke smiled and stepped away from the screen, walking on bare feet and exposed ankles toward him. Candlelight flickered over her breasts, shadows of a valley between them, and without a gown to cover her undergarments, the corset dramatized her natural curves. Bellamy fought not to watch her, yet she was a familiar, wonderful sight. He wanted her so much, he felt it in every fiber of his being, even the parts of him incorporeal.

She stopped before him, grabbing the lapels of his waistcoat and tugging him flush against her. She gazed up at him, a plot murky in her gaze.

He brushed aside a wayward lock of blonde hair falling over her cheek. “Your stepfather has tasked me as your butler to protect your virtue. As far as I’m concerned, your disposition is your greatest virtue. Do you want to wear the petticoat?”

“No.”

“Then don’t, if that’s what makes you happy.”

She tugged, pulling him down by his waistcoat, and though he had every tool in his perusal to resist, he let her harness him, the last time he may ever be gifted the secret of her attention. She leaned on him, brushing her lips across his, and his motor memory overwhelmed his better judgment, hand stealing her back and tucking a thumb under the corset laces as he rooted her against him. She nipped open his lips, exchanging warmth with the flick of her tongue. He wanted to kiss along her cheeks, down her neck, bury his mouth between her breasts and free her from the constraints to torment her nipples with his teeth. Yet Roan’s impending proposal loomed over them, and his kisses slowed, fervor leaving him.

She bit his lip, suckling before leaving his mouth to nip and kiss along his neck. He smiled, breathing harder, and his hand fell from her cheek, bunching the chemise up in his palm until the soft, warm silk beneath grazed his fingertips. He laid his palm flat over the pantaloons, the chemise draped over his wrist, and slid his hand along the smooth cloth till stumbling over the drawstring. He pinched an end, tugging, and the pantaloons fell, pooling over her feet and his leather boots.

Her breath hitched, lips poised over his collarbones, and the kisses slowed as his hand squeezed and kneaded her thigh. Then he was lost in the sensation of Clarke grappling for his lapels and keeping herself upright only by the craftsmanship of his waistcoat. He closed his eyes, craning his head back, listening to her moan as she mouthed the cloth over his collarbones.

* * *

Duke Roan, second in the line of succession, were his mother to die and the heir to not ascend, crossed the dancefloor and offered his forearm to Clarke. She bowed, silver diadem gleaming as light caught in the jewels, and accepted his arm. Thus the first dance of the night had begun.

“It isn’t right,” muttered Octavia. She whipped open her fan and hid her scowl behind it. “He doesn’t even love anyone but himself.”

“Come on, O, you know that isn’t true,” said Bellamy, leaning against the wall with a scarlet damask. He sipped from his crystal wine glass, apathetic about propriety. Besides, with Lincoln fighting in the war and returning soon for a brief, yet long due, wedding with Octavia, he had no one’s propriety to consider but his own.

She fanned herself, wisps of hair cooling Bellamy’s neck. “You’ve been fucking each other for months now. When are you going to fess up and admit you love each other?”

He smirked into the wine glass. “First time I’m hearing of this tryst with His Highness.”

She whacked his forearm with the fan, wine sloshing about in the glass. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

He regarded the stone column beside him, ignoring her entirely. Part of him wished to act on his feelings for Clarke to appease Octavia and end her recurrent disapproval whenever the subject of the impending proposal surfaced, which as of late was all too frequent. Cleverly phrased announcements in the society papers, orchestrated schedules between Clarke and luxurious dressmakers—life in some fashion or another revolved around this union.

Yet every evening, Bellamy, a man so beneath her station the _ton_ viewed him as a eunuch rather than a butler, brought Clarke her evening tea and slept in her bed more often than not.

He distracted himself from these loathsome thoughts by taking in the ballroom. The decorators had transformed the room into an elegant court fit for the proposal of the Season, red velvet drapes pinned and framed in sheer, pale curtains filtering in moonlight, chandeliers illuminating the halls and sending the marble floors aglow. Not a full orchestra but still a full bellied performance to convey a sense of endearing humility over the Duke’s prospective match.

But once he saw her, nothing else mattered.

Clarke commanded the attention of everyone in the room. It wasn’t just Bellamy who she ensnared, as she was a born leader. The true tragedy of their century were the laws prohibiting Clarke from inheriting the right to a seat in parliament, yet marriage to Roan mitigated that oversight, as the marriage provided her opportunity to influence a politician. As they settled into the dance floor, others paired off and joined them. Roan seized Clarke’s hand, yet her grip on his shoulder was tense. His palm on her back contorted the rich fabric of her dress. Bellamy closed his eyes, sighing, and as he drank his wine, he envisioned that once he looked upon the pair again, their stances would be switched, Clarke taking the lead.

Of course, he witnessed only Clarke succumbing to her role of following his lead. Bellamy tried to imagine how the first year of marriage might end for Clarke, but he only imagined her booking a cabin on a ship and venturing across the Atlantic until docking on land, journeying across the vast expanse and contemplating the harsh snow of the Canadian territories or the wild country of the American west.

Movement across the dancefloor snapped up his attention: Abby Griffin, technically Abby Kane now after her remarriage, looking him clear in the eye and shaking her shawl, gesturing to Clarke. He bowed his head to Octavia.

“It seems a chill has swept through the room,” he said. “Miss Griffin might catch a cold.”

Octavia snapped her fan closed and stepped away. “If you say so.”

“Where you off to?”

She peered over her shoulder at him, smiling coyly. “Mr. Green is wearing a charming emerald waistcoat and he, supposedly, never dances.”

* * *

Kane’s mansion reminded Bellamy of the country estate where his mother had worked during his childhood as a governess for a priest’s daughter and two sons. Stunning, immaculate, and free of any dust, yet the corridors were often murky and cast in shadows, the priest skimping on purchasing candles for the servants to carry as a torch despite having them work long after the sunset, his patience over penny pinching gracing them only hours past sundown, when twilight ceased to cast light through the windows and the overcast skies had long swallowed up all moonlight. This was the man who taught Bellamy that kindness could not simply be preached.

Bellamy didn’t mind the candles, rather simply the inconsideration, as like most he grew up on rush light and, when they could afford it, tarrow. Once Octavia was born, the money remaining from both their fathers’ combined fortunes were long dried out, and all money his mother earned as a governess went to housing, food, and education. Insomnia in the sleeping hours plagued Octavia all her life, and the dark which she spent many waking hours had grown too familiar. Their mother hadn’t lived to see the day a soldier with no title to his name had proposed to Octavia, and though Bellamy knew she would approve of any man that brought Octavia happiness—Lincoln could conjure flame from the strangest of items: oils and coal and animal bladders, burning brighter and longer lasting than the finest beeswax—but he knew she’d as well worry about her daughter’s future, regardless.

He had no clue what his mother might say about his affair with Clarke, but likely nothing favorable.

He strode into the room with the silence trained into servants, out of sight and still unseen, and halted upon noticing the shawl tossed around a column reaching out of the corners of Clarke’s bed. Clarke had laid him down on the plush duvet, settling the shawl over his eyes, and captured the buttons of his waist coat between her teeth, kissing his clothed stomach and chest until he was tempted to tear off the shawl—and he had, and then they decided it best not to mussy her hair and make up, lest the _ton_ inquire into her depraved state. She fell with her back to the bed with her head craned off the bed to protect the intricate bonnet, stealing the shawl, and he disappeared beneath the many layers of muslin and silk, dresses and pantaloons, before he found her core.

He approached the bed now, the lust and joy ridden from him, and gingerly retrieved the shawl, gazing at the intricate knitted lacework.

Bellamy felt as though he floated in a daze. In a ballroom gratuitously lit with more candles than he had seen in his lifetime, royalty leaving their castle to dance among those with reputable enough titles, there danced a woman destined to ascend to a station far beyond his fingers. He remembered the first time they kissed—it had been a long evening, a several course dinner with visiting relatives and members of the _ton_ , followed by a brief dance where Clarke, soon to enter her first Season as a marriageable woman, never once sat down. Her parents left earlier than she, and Bellamy had to call for a private carriage. Once the carriage arrived, both were so exhausted that neither realized they sat on the same seat until Clarke began to fall asleep, bonnet crashing against his shoulder.

They both were startled. He uttered a bewildered, “Miss Griffin?” and she attempted to right herself, only to regain her balance by accidentally taking hold of his thigh and hoisting herself up.

He didn’t know what encouraged it: His lack of dismissal or his sharp intact of air followed by a stifled moan as her grip pinched his thigh, sending lustrous waves to his groin. In either case, Clarke didn’t move, nor did Bellamy. A brief moment passed, then Bellamy said, “Did you enjoy the dance?”

“I’m not one much for dancing,” said Clarke.

Bellamy’s gaze went to her hand on his thigh. “What are you much for?”

The memories then were fuzzy. Both agreed that Clarke had moved first, knees turned to him and hand rising to dip beneath the hem of his waist coat and lay flat on his belly. They disagreed on the events after: The carriage shook over a series of large stones the driver fought to evade, jostling them about, and either Clarke intended to kiss him, or she’d lost balance and kissed him and neither thought to question it, only kiss.

For weeks, they flittered around the subject, though it ensnared all of Bellamy’s dreams. He thought it merely a fluke incident caused by Clarke’s fatigue over too much dancing, yet after her courtship with Roan began, Kane thought it best she attend a church in the countryside to complete a vow of chastity, to ensure she was a proper, marriageable woman. They traveled to the servant’s quarters belonging to the house of his mother’s old employer the priest, and though Bellamy’s position as a butler did not make him a prosperous suitor, the second they set down their baggage, the air grew electric, a small room growing even smaller. They had made love under the foul flame of rush light, and Clarke had told him she never felt so happy.

His musings halted, the avalanche of cognizance returning.

Clarke danced downstairs for Roan, the _ton_ , and the most anticipated proposal of the Season.

He only thought, _If it’s killing me this much, Clarke’s feeling the weight of the world._

He could set it right in only one way: Propose.

* * *

Bellamy vibrated with nerves, glancing about the dancefloor and stroking his cufflinks in attempt to soothe his agitation. He cut across the dancefloor as music shifted into a jovial song, the man who had just danced with Clarke guiding her back to the fringes of the dancefloor. Bellamy was three strides behind him and kept the barely concealed apprehension from his voice as he spoke, forgetting to offer his hand.

“Miss Griffin,” he said. “May I have this next dance?”

Clarke spun with the grace of a princess. “Mr. Blake?”

Bellamy looked at her grimly.

She bowed to the man beside her, slipping her hand from his forearm and offering it to Bellamy. “Yes, of course, Mr. Blake. I am honored.”

They stepped into the dead center of the ballroom, and he muttered lowly, “You look lovely.”

“You of all people ought to be impressed,” she said, eyes gleaming. “After all, you dressed me.”

Bellamy exhaled. “Guess so.”

“ _Ladies and gentlemen! The cotillion!_ ”

Cheers erupted about the ballroom, three couples scampering in a rush to join Clarke in a quartet.

“Are you all right?” she said, voice hushed.

Bellamy barely heard her over the excitement as charming music swelled, swooping violins and cellos in whimsical, elegant notes that slurred off into separate melodies before rejoining for a harmonious union. They smiled, tipping their heads in a slight bow to the others in their grouping, and the dance commenced: hops and spins, ankles jumping in a dillydallying choreography.

“Never been better,” he said, smiling, during a cacophonous rise in the music. “I just needed to kidnap you into conversation and didn’t know how else to accomplish it.”

Her eyes swept from side to side in deep thought. “That’s mysterious of you.”

“I suppose it is.”

They turned, linking hands with the persons on either side of them. They skipped as though circling a rosy, minds slightly dizzy by the time they could drop hands and their ankles dillydallied. They hopped, linked hands once more, and skipped counterclockwise, returning to their original placements.

They paired off once more, Bellamy perturbed.

She tugged him into the center, and he was thrown out of the moment as he barely knew this dance. He glanced to her, coping her every moment. They skipped and hopped in place, Clarke smiling politely and batting her lashes at the couple before them. Then they linked hands and all skipped clockwise, halting once they returned to their original positions. Clarke clasped his hand and lead him out into the greater circle. The sequence recommenced with the other pairs.

Clarke leaned into him, whispering, “Must be something big to get you to dance.”

He reflexively squeezed her hand. He glanced about the ballroom, searching for signs of her mother Abby. The thought of her watching made him wither. He was shocked no one had stolen Clarke to dance in another quartet. “Clarke—”

Then the cotillion demanded them once more.

They hopped into the center of the circle, skipping with the parallel couple before them. They separated, turning their backs to each other and pairing off with their parallel counterparts, hopping, skipping, and dillydallying until they paired off with another counterpart, dancing through the choreography of the cotillion until they were reunited, rosy cheeked and out of breath.

Clarke smiled, clasping his hand before they shifted into position for the next demand of the dance. Before the hops began, she said a breathy, “Escort me off the floor, then join me in the cellar. I’ll make some excuse to leave the floor.”

“You don’t even know what I want to say. It could be unimportant.” He closed his eyes, working to control the volume of his voice, fearing it to rise as panic surmounted him.

“I doubt that.”

As the music died down, couples vacated the dance floor, and Clarke regarded him with a twitching brow. He thought of the subservience of the bent knee, the heart aching poems his mother whispered in twilight. The intimidation in those romances frightened him more than Abby now. Removing any semblance of an emotion from his countenance, Bellamy presented Clarke his arm and escorted her off the dancefloor.

They’d barely made it halfway before a former suitor arrived, rosy cheeked and beaming.

* * *

He leaned against a wall between shelves stocked with aging wine bottles, fiddling with a cufflink and wearing a stare so intense he felt the tension seep into his shoulders, muscles aching as he held himself tightly. A candle flickered from a wine barrel a pace before him, its reach far enough to capture shadows by the entrance. Whispers of servant’s shoes scuffed the floors outside the door.

Every second that passed with him alone weighed heavily, doubts cast. He thought to steal his candle and leave, cut short the embarrassment of waiting here any longer, for it was a foolish thought to believe Clarke would keep her promise of meeting him on a night of such importance. It did not matter if the secret union were of her own devising. As the quiet of the cellar tormented him, the stillness jarring enough to draw out the gentle tick of his pocket watch, his pondering turned to why Clarke suggested their meeting.

The thought of a second secret affair in this night made his gut churn. He did not know if he could bear it, and as the wait progressed, he realized this was destined to always be the extent of them. Upon leaving the dancefloor, he twisted the ring on his thumb about, imagining Clarke’s hand as he gazed up at her smiling face and slid the too large ring onto her finger, holding her hand to keep the ring in place.

He was a far cry from a Duke.

The door creaked upon, whispers of shoes fluttering in, and candle light cast a thin, stretched shadow upon the stone floor.

“Bellamy?” whispered Clarke.

He pulled at his cravat. “Over here, duchess.”

Her shadow loomed closer before swinging like a clock face as she stepped past the shelves. Face half in a silhouette, shadows dramatized her easy smile into razor sharp features. She settled her candle beside his and crept to him, halting a hair’s length, yet they didn’t touch, only watching fire light flicker over them.

Her smile fell. “Say something. Are you well?”

“I feel divine,” he said. “In positively good health.”

She laid her palm flat over his chest. “That’s not true. Speak to me.”

He craned his head far back, scratching his scalp along the wall.

“Bellamy?”

“Don’t marry him,” he whispered, and held himself together. He straightened his back and looked at her. Her eyebrows were pulled together in bewilderment. “Don’t marry Roan.”

She bit off a laugh before it could truly start, yet Bellamy still flinched. “They’re expecting me to become engaged tonight. I had to lie and claim I’m scolding the cooking staff in order to prevent my mother from keeping me on the dancefloor and always in Roan’s sight.”

He slid the ring off his thumb, rolling it between his fingers. He tried to lace his words with a humorous, melodious fervor. “So the _ton_ merely wants to hear their wedding bells a-ringing?”

Clarke bit her lip, grimacing. “I wish—things would be so much simpler if you and—”

Her eyes widened, as if the words had tumbled out without first filtering through her conscience, and her hand slipped off his waistcoat. She stepped back, yet he seized this brief opening, grasping her with the hand holding the ring. She stilled, regarding the movement with a quizzical eye, yet he felt as her wrist turned, hand opening, and the ring dropped into her palm. Her gaze cut to him.

“What is this?” said Clarke. They gazed at each other, and in the many years they’d spent knowing one another as well as they had, in their stillness, the unspoken question was broached. Her mouth pursed, tight and restrictive, yet her eyes brightened. “Go secure a carriage. We need to leave. You’ve said that Lincoln has a cottage in the country he’s permitted for your use?”

He nodded.

“Do you think we could hide there?”

“Yes, but—” Bellamy withered. “Your family may never speak to you again.”

“They’ll get it,” she said, “in time. I don’t think they approved of the match, not really, but it isn’t like we had much of a choice with coalitions in parliament considering a backdoor agreement with Kane. The marriage was nothing but a political stunt from the start. This could be a good thing.”

Bellamy slipped his hand from hers, taking the ring and perching it over the tip of her ring finger. “You’re certain?”

She pushed her hand to his chest, the too large ring sliding onto her finger. “I’m never been more certain of anything.”

They soaked in the sight of one another under the glimmer of the pale candlelight. Then she slid her hand away, hand naked of jewelry. “I need to make appearances. Feign that I’m off to fix my makeup,. They’ll think I’m preparing for the proposal.”

Bellamy slid his ring back on, the weight ever present. “What if Roan gets to you first?”

“He won’t. I won’t give him the opportunity.” She raised to her toes, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Wait for me at the corner.”

* * *

Their carriage waited, the plain brown horse standing at rest with a hoof perched up to give the leg a rest. Its paint irked Bellamy, a darker carriage more preferable as it allowed the light to absorb and blend them into the night, yet the only carriage free for their perusal was one painted as grey as the pale moonlight, creamy cushions with pearl trim in the interior. He kept the curtains shut, the carriage devoid of starlight or the lanterns illuminating the street. His clock ticked, louder than he thought possible, louder than it’d been in the cellar.

The ceiling clattered, the coach knocking in warning. They’d waited since ten past the hour, and Bellamy’s anticipation wrecked through his nerves, making him fear how far down the dial the minute hand might have gone on his pocket watch. He had attempted to follow along with the beats ticking away, yet his mind raced too fast to attend to anything but quelling his disposition.

Knuckles wrapped hard on the door, and Bellamy startled, a retort caught on his tongue.

Yet he never had to voice it for once the door swung open, Clarke leapt inside, snapping the door shut and knocking on the ceiling to signal their leave for the coach. She collapsed beside him, tearing off her diadem and setting it on the free space beside her and away from him, rubbing at her scalp where the diadem had once been. The carriage jolted into motion, jostling them, and their shoulders bumped, Clarke sliding until her shoulder blade rested over his breast. Neither repositioned, and when Clarke was satisfied with the state of her head, she dropped her hand to his lap, seeking out his hand and lacing their fingers.

He swallowed, gazing down at the lace shawl curling around her forearm. His mind was stuck on the thought that, as of that morning, he had kissed his lover, and, as of this night, he held his fiancée’s hand. The gravity forced the air from his lungs, breath hissed out through his teeth.

The carriage bounced as they left the cobblestone streets, winding into the forests as they left the city. Clarke lost balance, falling from where she had rested against his chest, sprawled on her back over his thighs. She gazed up at him, yet he was enraptured by her breasts bulging past the constraints of her corset, the fine fabric of her dress framing her like artwork.

He curled his fingers, brushing his knuckles across her breasts, his callused, worn skin scratchy in contrast to the tender skin. Clarke’s breath caught, eyes shutting, and blindly she grasped the string drawing the dress tight across her chest, tugging it loose. He stroked to her collarbones, knuckles ghosting across her. He laid his palm flat, his knobby knuckles seeming to jut out more as it brushed across her. Her breast shifted out of position with the corset not designed for Clarke to lay down and still keep her cleavage in place. It fell from its confines and he grasped it, squeezing, and fiddled with the nipple. Clarke shifted, rubbing against his cock which hardened at the sight of her disguising the effect of his toying with her.

The carriage bounced again, Clarke jostled from his lap. Bellamy grabbed her arm, keeping her from falling, and she sat up, sliding onto his lap. The curtains fluttered as the carriage sped through forests, glimpses of moonlit trees brushing past them. Clarke leaned in, eyelids hooded as she gazed down at his lips. With her sitting on him, he had to tilt his chin to meet her eye. She curled one hand around his neck, carding fingers through his hair and tugging, and began popping off buttons from his waist coat. Once the last button was freed, she held his cheek, holding him still as she bent down and kissed him.

They kissed tentatively, testing the waters as if they had never touched each other before, and Bellamy thought that perhaps they never had, not as they did now. For in this kiss lived a rubicon of their own making: the rejection of the _ton_ and the acknowledgment that the secrets that had built between them had been culminating into not a tryst but a union, a legitimacy to a love long kept in the shadows. Bellamy settled a hand at the small of her back, the other slipping under her dress and scratching lines along her thigh before capturing the drawstring of her pantaloons and tugging. He dipped his hand beneath the band, carding fingers through the coarse blonde hair. Clarke shifted, and he pulled her pantaloons off, feeling the bare skin of her legs now as the clothing fell to the carriage floor. She slid away from his lap. Trapping him with her knees pressed on the seat at either side of him. He grasped her core, massaging her, palm growing wet. He ached to finger her, but with the carriage ride turning wild at the drop of a hat, he blanched at the thought. He worked her, feeling his palm getting warmer as she grew wetter, and soon she pressed down on him, little moans kissed against his mouth. Heat pooled in him, cock hardening.

The carriage shook over a rough patch in the dirt road, and Bellamy’s thumb slid between her lips. He pressed into her pulsating clit by accident, and Clarke groaned, fingers curling in his hair hard enough to hurt, and she shoved her tongue into his mouth.

They kissed until Bellamy’s attention was no longer in it, blinded by the pulse beating against his palm. He held her cheek, beckoning her to stop. She pulled back, eyes dizzy and bewildered.

Bellamy smiled. “I want to try something,” he said, and shifted, pushing her off his lap and onto the seat. He fell to his knees onto the floor, setting his hand over her knee and pressing. Clarke grabbed his fringe, licking her lips, and he didn’t fold over her dress but tucked himself beneath the layers, Clarke’s holding falling to curl around his bicep. He kissed along her thighs, and he quit palming her to part her lips. Before the evening air could chill her, he enclosed her with his mouth. She shook as he suckled her clit, tongue flicking, and as the carriage began to tremor with telltale signs of a rocky path, he gripped the seating, anchoring himself against her, and her hand tore away from his arm to clutch his wrists.

Her grip tightened and released in rhythm to breaths growing shallower and more harried as he sucked, pulling away from her and parting only when the suction gave out, a raspberry kiss vociferous static cluttering the air of the silent carriage. Clarke slapped a hand onto the seat, then snatched up her dress, wrestling through the fabric to clutch a fistful of Bellamy’s hair, and she shoved him against her, muttering, “Oh, god, there…” And it was not as if Bellamy wanted to move away from her even if he could, and technically, he had not been fired as her butler just yet, so he attended to the order tasked in those three words.

Her clit pulsated fiercely, and she convulsed for a brief moment before stilling, breath caught and fingers relaxing their hold on his hair. Bellamy slowed, suckling and kissing her clit. Then she groaned, low and debauched, and scratched his ear. A frission raised through her, goosebumps rising all along her thighs, and she tugged at his hair, displacing him.

Bellamy kissed her thigh before falling back to sit on the floor, leaning his back against the seat across from her. The dress pooled between her thighs. She pressed her wrist to her forehead, licking her lips.

“Octavia—”

“Were you thinking of my sister the _whole_ time?”

Her lip quivered, a rising smile. “I was about to say, Octavia realized something had occurred when we left soon after our dance and you never returned. I didn’t confirm anything, but she told me that she was staying in London for the Season to persuade Monty to see reason and begin courting Harper.”

“A cottage to ourselves. To do what—”

“—or _whom_ —”

Bellamy smiled. “We want.”

They contemplated this, listening to the clack of horse hooves outside, and then Clarke said, “By the way, I hope you understand I’m only taking your name because I don’t have much of a choice in that matter.”

“I expect nothing less, Miss Griffin.”


End file.
